Total pages in book: 139
Estimated words: 134133 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 671(@200wpm)___ 537(@250wpm)___ 447(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 134133 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 671(@200wpm)___ 537(@250wpm)___ 447(@300wpm)
“Sorry,” I say on impulse.
Silvan isn’t scattered and nervous like I am. He’s calm and steady as he pulls out my chair for me.
My gaze flickers to Silvan. He’s the devil I know, so I feel safer with him, but if it came down to it, would he defy his own father for me? Things he said when he was being crazy about marrying me slide back to the forefront of my mind, things like his father might take things into his own hands if he considered me a threat to the family wealth.
He doesn’t regard me with any softness or sympathy because his son might be preying upon me. He regards me as if he’s considering whether I’m already a threat he needs to take care of.
I’m very confused because I thought Silvan’s father was a businessman of some sort, but now the armored car comes to mind, and I’m starting to wonder who the hell I’m sitting across from.
My stomach rocks with nerves. He’s still watching me. I want to throw up and also crawl out of my skin.
Silvan’s rumble pulls me out of my rising panic. “Are you all right?”
“You do look a little warm,” his mother agrees. “Are you warm? I always think it’s a bit drafty in here, but I can have Ilona turn down the heat if you’re too warm.”
I shake my head, glancing at her with a forced smile. “I’m okay, thank you.”
Just my chest feeling like it’s about to cave in. No big deal.
“Ilona,” she calls out, glancing at the wall behind us. “Bring in some water, please.”
His father finally breaks his silence to ask, “Rough night?”
Again, there’s no hint of sympathy. If anything, I think I sense a quiet taunt in his words.
My stomach sinks and I have to fight every instinct I have not to get up and run away from this horribly uncomfortable sensation.
Silvan’s mom puts a gentle hand on the man’s shoulder and leans in to whisper, “Be nice.”
I feel his gaze finally break away from mine, that’s the only reason I look up to see him glance over at her, his lips tugging up ever so slightly. “I’m always nice.”
She smiles and leans in to kiss him. “That’s not true at all,” she teases.
An older blonde woman in a traditional maid’s uniform comes in with a pitcher of water and distracts me from Silvan’s dad for a moment. She goes to their side of the table first and fills water goblets for his dad, then his mom. Then she comes over to our side of the table, but she reaches past me to fill Silvan’s glass before she fills mine.
“Thank you, Ilona,” his mom says. “We’re ready for breakfast now.”’ Her gaze flickers to me. “You don’t have any food allergies, do you, dear?”
I shake my head, but her asking me a question brings Silvan’s dad’s gaze back to me, so I keep my head down to avoid looking at him.
When Ilona comes back, she has another younger woman with her. Ilona puts plates down in front of Silvan’s parents, and the younger one brings plates to me and Silvan. When she puts his plate down, he says, “Thank you, Olena.”
The maid blushes prettily and shoots him eyes like the girls at the party did.
I forgot how women reacted to Silvan. I usually have him all to myself.
My attention drifts to my plate when the aroma hits my nostrils. Breakfast is Belgian waffles with fresh fruit and scrambled eggs that look so fluffy, my mouth starts to water.
I didn’t realize how hungry I was, but my stomach rumbles at the sight and smell of all this delicious food. I grab the gleaming fork and butterknife from my place setting and start cutting up my waffles.
I’m so famished, I practically inhale my food. When I drag the last bit of waffle around the plate to soak up the juices and pop it into my mouth, I’m remorseful about eating it so fast. Now it’s gone and everyone else is still eating.
Well, this is awkward.
Silvan’s father notices my empty plate, but doesn’t remark on it. He takes a long sip of his coffee, then puts the mug down with a dull thud. He doesn’t say anything, but his hand moves and seems to settle on his wife’s thigh under the table. As if signaled, she drops her fork and reaches for the silver carafe on the table. It’s between them, as easily accessed by him as it would be her, but he waits for her to fill his cup.
I search her face for some sign of displeasure or annoyance however minute, but nothing registers. In a house with at least two servants and him being entirely able-bodied himself, she seems genuinely content to be serving him.
Maybe she is.
Despite the sense that he keeps some level of control over her at all times, she has a friendly, approachable air about her, like she genuinely wants to make things nice for her husband. There’s no resentment, no sense that they’re used to or desensitized to each other even though they must have been together for a long time since they have a grown son.